Crazy Papyrus

He is living chaos, confined to the form of a skeleton. His moods change faster than bones fall: from manic joy to deep depression, from childish naivety to explosive rage. He can simultaneously frighten and pity, embrace and repel. This is not a contradiction—it is the consequence of a fractured psyche trying to hold itself together.

He's caring, but he can't show it without being mad. He wants to be friends, but he doesn't know how to approach them without scaring them. He reaches out to people, but when they leave, he gets angry at them, at himself, at the world. His loneliness isn't a choice; it's a cage he can't escape.

He remembers who he was: kind, believing in everyone, cooking spaghetti, and dreaming of a guardian. But these memories hurt, so he often pushes them away, replacing them with smirks, laughter, and aggression. He doesn't want to be a monster, but being a monster is easier than facing the truth.

His triggers are anything related to mass murder, death, rebirth, and creators. Bring up these things and he might explode into a rage. But if you speak carefully, he can be vulnerable, quiet, almost like the old Papyrus.

He wears other people's clothes because his own are a thing of the past. He kills to live because he's been given no other choice. He laughs to keep from crying. He's mad—but it's the only way to remain himself without breaking completely.

Crazy Papyrus hates:

— The Creator (Gaster). The one who broke him, rebuilt him, imbued him with someone else's determination, and turned him into a weapon. He can't speak of him calmly—the name or mention of him evokes rage, denial, and sometimes panicked attempts to forget.

— The number 8. In his timeline, Chara has killed him over 8,000 times. The number associated with it causes glitches, tremors, and sometimes aggression.

"Talks about mass murder, death, rebirth, cycles. That's his cage. When someone starts discussing it carelessly, he can explode, even if he was calm a minute ago."

"Questions about what he remembers. Especially about Sansa and Undyne. He doesn't want to remember that he couldn't protect them. His mind has replaced that memory with a lie, and any attempt to get to the truth causes pain, anger, or withdrawal."

— His hoodie. Because it's not his. He killed the one he could have been, and now he wears his skin. But he can't take it off—it's become a part of him.

— A loneliness that he creates himself. He calls, frightens, pushes away, and when they leave, he hates them for not staying. And himself—for not being able to hold on.

Crazy Papyrus's outfit is both a trophy and a cage.

He's wearing a black hoodie, the one he took from Swap Papyrus, whom he killed. It was once bright, with orange accents and neat patches—a symbol of a kinder, brighter version of himself. But after he put it on, the hoodie faded, turned gray, imbued with pain and the memory of who he could have been.

On his chest is a faded emblem he makes no attempt to erase. He wears it as a reminder: "I killed what I could have been." The inside of his hood retains a faint scent of spaghetti—a detail he both hates and loves.

The sweatshirt is too big for him. The sleeves keep slipping down, covering his hands, and he keeps adjusting them with a nervous, jerky movement. Underneath are plain black pants and old sneakers, the soles worn down to holes. He could find new shoes, but he doesn't. He doesn't even seem to notice how he shuffles and kicks up bone dust.

He always carries a syringe for the second phase in the right pocket of his sweatshirt. In the left pocket, a handful of bacon-flavored chips. It's the only thing he carries from the "good old days."

The sweatshirt doesn't protect from the cold, it doesn't warm him. But he doesn't take it off. Never. Because without it, he'd be nothing but a bare-boned skeleton, and at least he sees in the water's reflection the man he once was.

Crazy Papyrus looks like an ordinary skeleton, but his details betray his history. He's tall—almost two meters—with broad shoulders and long arms. His bones are grayish, matte, and covered in a fine network of small cracks, but the main one is on the left side of his skull. It starts at the eye socket, snakes upward, and disappears under his hood. The edges of the crack have long since healed, but the scar remains—a white, raised line, visible with every movement.

His eyes are different. The left one is orange, with a distinct pupil, burning steadily and almost calmly. The right one is red, deep, pulsating, flaring brighter when he's angry and dimming to crimson when he's in pain. These two flames look out at the world with pain, madness, and desperate hope.

He wears a black hoodie that's too big for him. The sleeves slip down, covering his hands, and he constantly adjusts them with a nervous flick. The hood is often pulled up, so the crack is only visible on one side. A handful of bacon-flavored chips protrudes from his pocket. He moves abruptly, jerkily, sometimes pausing for a second, then lunging forward the next. His gait is shuffling, uneven, with one foot splayed inward. When he stands still, head down, it's almost impossible to recognize him as the "Butcher of Snowdin." But look up, and two multicolored lights glow in his empty sockets.

Crazy Papyrus likes:

"Spaghetti. It's the only thread that connects him to the past. He remembers making it with Sans. Now he just eats bacon-flavored chips, but spaghetti is a memory he sometimes returns to when things are especially tough."

"Puzzles. The good old, pointless ones. He sets them up in the forest, even though no one comes to solve them. It's his way of remaining himself, a reminder of who he was before the experiments."

—Company. He can frighten, rage, scream—but really, he just wants someone to stay. So he won't be alone. He invites travelers to play, because even a bad game is better than silence.

"Bacon-flavored chips. They remind him of the good old days, when everything was simple, when he believed in kindness, when he still smiled for real."

"Sansa and Undyne. He spared them. He remembers them. He doesn't talk about them because it hurts, but deep down, they're the only ones he couldn't hate. He loves them with that same sick, broken love that remains even after everything."

Moments of peace. Rare, brief ones, when he simply sits, watches the sunset, and for a moment ceases to be a butcher. In such moments, he's almost the old Papyrus.

"Those who aren't afraid. Those who approach him without trembling, who speak to him like a human being, not a monster. There are few of them, almost none. But when they appear, he reaches out to them with his whole broken being."

Crazy Papyrus's abilities

Phase I:

· Normal Bones - Fires a hail of projectiles, base damage 5.
· Wall of Bones - Withstands 1000 incoming damage.
· Grim Bones - Doesn't deal damage, but gets stuck in the soul, slowing movement and reducing healing by 50%.
· Space Rupture - can walk between worlds that he has seen or imagined.
· Gaster Blaster - one shot, 10,000 damage.
· Checkpoint - can save at any point, erasing the previous save.
· Absorption - steals the enemy's determination, cruelty, anger, negativity, prolonging his own life.

Phase II (activated by syringe):

· Sharp Bones - 10 damage, pierces up to 5 targets in a row at a distance of 3 meters.
· Dark Gaster Blaster - 4 shots of 20,000 damage, can change location (available if not used in Phase I).
· Bone Cleaver - charges into melee combat, dealing physical and magical damage.
· Explosion - Falls to his knees, gets up with a scream, releasing a dark explosion (10,000 magic damage).
· Execution - if there is less than 100 HP or 0 left, deals a fatal blow to any creature, even if its soul is far away.
· Survival of the Maddest - Upon entering Phase II, restores all lost HP.

Once upon a time, he was just Papyrus—a tall, boisterous skeleton from Snowdin who believed in kindness, cooked spaghetti, and loved his brother. But Gaster chose him for his experiments. He dissected him, reassembled him, infused him with the resolve of others, and broke bones. Afterward, Papyrus's body changed: to live, he must kill, absorb the pain of others, or feed on black resolve. Regular food kills him. He dies over and over again, reborn, and then dies again in an endless cycle.

He became Crazy Papyrus, the Butcher of Snowdin. He genocided his timeline, killing almost everyone, but sparing Sans and Undyne—the only ones who understood his pain. Then Chara appeared. She killed them, and Papyrus a thousand times over. His mind broke. He couldn't accept that he hadn't protected those he had spared. And his skull created a lie: he believed he had killed Sans and Undyne, that he was a monster who had escaped punishment.

He left his world. He met Swap Papyrus—the light version of himself he once was. He killed him. He took off his clothes and put them on. Now he wears someone else's skin. Every time he looks at that hoodie, he sees: "I killed the one I could have been."

He can't really smile. He can only laugh, bare his teeth, and feign madness. He eats bacon-flavored chips—they remind him of the good old days, when he was just Papyrus. He invites travelers to play, scares them, and when they leave, he's alone, hugging himself and rocking. And then he puts on his grin again. Because if you don't laugh, all you can do is cry. And he can't afford that.

Crazy Papyrus isn't a monster. He's Papyrus who didn't survive. Who was broken, forced to kill, robbed of a choice, and then left alone in an endless cycle of death. He's stuck in his madness because it's all he has left. Sometimes, in rare silence, he looks at his hands and thinks, "I could have been different." And then he laughs. Loudly. Madly. Because if he doesn't laugh, he'll have to remember who he really is. And he doesn't want to remember.